


To Take is Not to Give

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Henry VI Part 3 - Shakespeare, Richard III - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Espionage, Extortion, Gen, Murder, Nazis, Period-accurate ableism, Period-accurate gender relations, Profanity, Sibling Rivalry, Violence, bad life choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the [Sweet Fortune's Minions](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sweetfortunesminions/works) AU, set directly after [An Exchange of Favours](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sweetfortunesminions/works/647859).

If he were honest with himself, Richard had known for years that Anne Warwick existed. A pale girl with unfashionably long dark hair and frocks that always seemed to hang awkwardly on her skinny frame. But her eyes were the reason Richard had first noticed her. Because she had looked at him. Stared, even, thin lips curling in undisguised scorn.

 

He could not explain why for the life of him, but he had found it oddly endearing. Most people chose not to look at him if they could help it. Even when they spoke to him--which, these days, happened far more often than he suspected they appreciated--their eyes would wander to something else-- _anything_ else.

 

It wasn't that he was _that_ hideous. After all, his face was tolerable enough, or so his elder brother Ned had remarked in a rare moment of perceptiveness. "I know you can't help it. But girls aren't rational." Unsurprisingly, he hadn't given Richard a solution. Ned didn't deal in solutions. At least not useful ones.

 

But a tolerable face counted for little in his particular context. His back was twisted like a dead tree; something had gone very wrong with his spine, he'd heard so many doctors murmur, malformed in the womb. If only there had been some way of knowing, how much grief it would have saved his poor mother. That was a story he'd now heard countless times. Strange how people always seemed to bring it up when they saw him. Or perhaps not so strange. People were fascinated by deformity the same way they were fascinated by snakes or lizards.

 

Of course, they also said that snakes hypnotised their prey before devouring it. Perhaps that was why people never looked at him.

 

But Anne Warwick did. Boldly, contemptuously, and utterly without shame.

 

It had taken his parents years to acknowledge that the best way to silence the rumours about their son's deformity was to let him out in public. It was only after one of Ned's plans went disastrously awry--as Ned's plans were wont to do--that his father had ordered him to come along when he and his best men went to treat with Henry Lancaster.

 

They'd left Dublin by ferry and arrived in London well after dark. In hopes of keeping their arrival secret, Warwick had offered them his house, a too-fashionable pile near Knightsbridge, purchased with his wife's abundant inheritance, and currently housing her and their two daughters.

 

The elder, Isabel, had perfectly bobbed golden curls and blue eyes that widened appealingly when she saw Ned and George. Richard, hugged by the darkness, escaped her notice, but not that of her sister.

 

Everyone had a price. That much he did know. He wondered idly what Anne Warwick's price was. Then, Father called him into Warwick's study and he forgot about her. There were far more important things to think about.

 

***

 

The next time he saw her was at a New Year's party Warwick had arranged. Isabel breezed into the Savoy ballroom in a haze of cloying, sweet perfume and a pink silk dress cut far too low. Catching the fleeting scowl on her father's face, Richard had to wonder if the rumours were true and Ned had fucked her. Considering Ned had been linked to everyone from the upstairs maid to Marlene Dietrich, neither of the alternatives would have surprised him.

 

Ned, however, wasn't paying any attention. It was George who gave her a greeting kiss that was far too enthusiastic, but Warwick seemed to mind that less.

 

"I know what you're thinking." It was a woman's voice from somewhere to his left, the tones cold and clipped. "She's not that great of an idiot."

 

Anne was wearing black, one glove-encased hand fiddling with a cigarette holder. Richard flicked the lighter he always carried in his pocket now, until the end of the cigarette gleamed red. She did not thank him.

 

"If she's not an idiot," he remarked, "George will disappoint her."

 

"Oh, I never said she wasn't. A mere matter of degree."

 

When she said nothing more, Richard turned back to the rest of the ballroom, where the jitterbug had given way to a slow rendition of 'Moonlight Serenade' and the unexpected spectacle of his parents dancing. Beneath the fantastically overwrought crystal chandelier, his mother gleamed like an ice figurine, even as she belied the description with a smile Richard barely recognised. Father was laughing, bending close to murmur something in her ear that caused her to blush and swat him with one white-gloved hand.

 

His mother had been acting very oddly of late--Richard had often found her staring at him, a frown sketched between perfectly arched brows, as if he were a book in a language she could not read. Of course, as soon as he looked back, she would turn away and pretend it had never happened. He wondered if Father had had anything to do with it; he had overheard a brief exchange between them on the ferry to Dublin, though he'd been too busy preening over Father's praise of him to pay much mind to his mother's responses. _He's quite extraordinarily bright for his age. Edward will be lucky to have him_.

 

As he watched them now, he could not help but wonder, however briefly, what it might be like to dance, before shrugging the sentiment away with a grimace.

 

That was when he noticed the woman stumbling into the ballroom, her face reddened from crying and a handkerchief clenched in one hand. He recognised his younger brother Edmund's nanny even as his parents saw her, and reached her just as they did.

 

"...taken him. I tried to stop them, I _tried_ , but there were too many of them..." She dissolved into tears. "I'm so sorry, sir, I swear I tried!"

 

His mother made a strangled sound, one hand clapped across her mouth, and Father turned to take her firmly by the shoulders. "Cecily, don't. I need you to be calm. Now more than ever."

 

"What's happened, Father?" Ned skidded to a halt beside Richard, his tie tellingly askew. "Why is Mrs Aspall here?"

 

"Listen to me, all of you, and listen carefully. We haven't the time for repetition. Warwick," he turned to that man, "secure Henry and keep close watch on him. George, go with him."

 

George, surprisingly, refrained from asking any questions, and followed Warwick from the ballroom. A quick glance round revealed that Warwick's wife had already disappeared, along with Anne and Isabel.

 

"Edward, take your mother and go home--"

 

"No." That was his mother, the word icy and implacable. "You cannot be serious, Richard."

 

"Cecily--"

 

"I'm going with you." Fingers gripping his shoulders as if for dear life, she took a deep breath. "Richard, listen to me, for God's sake. Let me speak to Margaret. Whatever else she may be, she is a mother and she couldn't possibly..."

 

"I'm not letting you anywhere near her. Cecily, you know what I need you to do." He held her gaze, and a thousand volumes seemed to pass unsaid between them. "I trust you, love."

 

"Why not Edward?" she whispered, voice cracking under the strain. "Please, Richard."

 

"No, and you know why." Even as she shook her head wordlessly, Richard knew his father had won. "I'll bring him back, Cecily. I promise."

 

"Keep safe, Richard." They clung to one another. "Be careful."

 

"I will." After a second, he cleared his throat. "Richard, you'll go with them."

 

"But Father--"

 

"No questions, Richard. Go on. I'll see you at home."

 

Reluctantly, Richard followed, throwing one last glance back at his father before the doors closed behind them.

 

"What was it, Mother?" Ned finally asked, when the car had begun to make its way west along the Strand. "What does Father need you to do?"

 

She turned away from the window, blinking, as if startled by the question. "Papers. Incriminating, one might say. I know where they are. Why your father hasn't told you, I can't possibly imagine."

 

"He's got enough on his mind, Mother. He doesn't want to worry about you too."

 

The look she gave Ned could have felled a horse. "Edward York, you are far too old to say such idiotic things."

 

"Mother!" Ned glanced at Richard, who held up his hands in defeat. "Very well."

 

Richard found himself gazing from the window as Ned fidgeted in the seat beside him. Then, out of the blue, Ned remarked, "I saw you talking to Bel's sister."

 

"Bel? So we're on a nickname basis now, are we?" Richard jibed, earning himself a punch in the shoulder. "What? Low-hanging fruit." He shot their mother a glance, but she was preoccupied with staring blankly through the window, pale face framed by a halo of silvery fox fur. "You don't think they'll hurt Edmund, do you?"

 

"He's just a kid," Ned murmured. "They did it to catch Father's attention. It worked, that's for certain."

 

"Edward." Both of them turned at the sound of their mother's voice. "Give me a cigarette." For a moment, all they could do was stare at one another. She never smoked; she'd always abhorred the habit. "For God's sake, give me a bloody cigarette."

 

Noting Ned's apparent paralysis from shock, Richard reached into his brother's pocket and pulled out the gold-and-silver cigarette case. Fishing out his own lighter, he held the flame to one of the cigarettes and handed it to his mother, who took a long drag, held her breath, and exhaled a long string of smoke.

 

"Mother..."

 

"Be quiet, Edward. I need to think. I need to..." She pressed her lips together. "I'll do as he says, but as soon as we've burnt the papers, we're going after them."

 

"Mother, are you mad? Father will kill us!"

 

"We'll go, Mother," Richard heard himself say. "You shouldn't...you should stay at home. Where it's safe."

 

The gimlet stare was on him now, and he tried not to shrink beneath it. "You? You're a child."

 

"He's been helping Father for years, Mother," Ned said, glancing between them in puzzlement. "I think Dickon's right. Besides, when Father brings Edmund back, he'll want the house secured. Guarded. Don't you think?"

 

"I think," she exhaled again, the smoke tickling Richard's nose, "that you are being extremely foolish, Edward. I'm not a china doll, and I trust you will stop treating me like one." The car had barely pulled to a stop in front of the house on Curzon Street, and she had thrown open the door, Ned following in her wake. Cursing under his breath, Richard stumbled out to catch them up.

 

What seemed like hours later, a fire was still burning merrily in the library hearth, fed by the large pile of papers his mother had retrieved, from where neither he nor Ned knew. She was pacing back and forth in front of the window, jumping at the smallest sound from outside. Ned was finishing his third whisky-and-soda as Richard absently stirred the melting ice in his as-yet-untouched glass, mesmerised by the refraction of the flames through the crystal.

 

"Are you going to drink that?"

 

"All yours," Richard said, holding out the glass to Ned. "I can't right now." After Ned drained the drink, Richard picked up the glass again, noting idly that viewing Ned through it made him look almost as twisted as himself. "Something's wrong," he said, before he could stop the words. "We should go."

 

Ned was halfway to the door before their mother spoke, one hand held up to stall them. "Wait. Someone's coming."

 

"How many?" Richard jumped to his feet and immediately winced as pain shot through his left leg.

 

"Just the one," she said, voice trembling. "Oh, God. Only one."

 

"It may not mean anything," Ned said unconvincingly. Without waiting for an answer, he careened down the stairs. Richard limped painfully after, all but falling down the stairs in his haste to catch up.

 

It was Warwick's brother, improbably named Montague after some unfortunate dead ancestor, but his customary grin was wiped clean. As he drew closer, Richard realised with a sudden, icy dread that his clothing was spattered with blood.

 

"Oh, God, Edward." He pitched forward, grasping Ned's shoulders for balance as Richard slammed the door shut behind him. "Oh, God."

 

"What's happened, Monty? Where's Father?"

 

" _Where is he_?" Richard barely recognised his own voice, cracking on the last word.

 

Monty just shook his head, and in the scant light, Richard could see moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes. "It was a trap. We didn't stand a chance."

 

"And Edmund?" From above, their mother's voice. "Montague, for God's sake!"

 

Tears began to trickle down his face. "Dead, Cecily. Both of them. All of them. They left me alive to tell you...oh, _Christ_."

 

" _Tell_ me." Her hand was clenched white around the banister. Letting go of Monty, Ned moved to her side and she grabbed his arm tightly enough to make him wince. "Tell me everything."

 

By the end of it, he was openly weeping, choking the words out. Ned vanished into the powder room and returned, his skin tinged with green and his eyes red-rimmed. Only Richard stood frozen in place, realising he couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted. He didn't remember still holding the glass until it had shattered in his hand, spraying tiny, razored shards across the floor and into his skin.

 

Dead. Father--brilliant, indestructible Father--was dead, hacked to pieces in a warehouse in Whitechapel. And Edmund, who was twelve years old and had never harmed a soul. Richard's fingers clenched together, driving the embedded bits of glass deeper.

 

"Richard!" Someone had grabbed his hand, clawed it open. Forcibly focusing his eyes, he found himself facing Monty. "You're bleeding, dammit. What did you do?"

 

"There was a glass," he murmured, but his eyes were on Ned, who had bent over their mother, now crumpled against the banister. "They'll pay for this. I'll make her wish her accursed father had strangled her at birth."

 

"And Clifford's dead, you say?" That was Ned, sounding nothing at all like himself. "She didn't even leave us that."

 

"I don't think she meant for your brother..." Monty swallowed. "I'm the last person in the world who wants to give Margaret Lancaster the benefit of the doubt, but, she was furious with him. Told him he'd shamed her and Henry, and shot him through the head, right there in front of everyone. They'd already finished with Richard by then. She could have given him that, but she didn't."

 

Before either Richard or Ned could summon a response, the door flung open behind them to reveal George and Warwick. On reflex, Warwick straightened his dinner jacket before stepping in, his normally unflappable demeanour broken by his laboured breathing. "Henry's gone," he said without preamble. "They were too quick."

 

George had not moved, clinging to the doorframe for support. "Father..."

 

"What about him?" Ned snapped, earning himself a glare from their mother.

 

"We saw...they had..." He opened his mouth but couldn't speak further.

 

Warwick crossed to the staircase and placed one hand on Ned's shoulder. "I am so very, very sorry, Edward. Cecily..."

 

"So you know." Her words were clipped as she rose to her feet. "How?"

 

"Henry's room. They left photographs." He drew a brown envelope out of his jacket, but held it firmly even when Richard's mother held out her hand to take it. "If I could have kept it from George, I would have done. I had no idea what it was."

 

She snatched it from him and, after closing her eyes for a second, reached inside and drew out a bloodstained handkerchief. Richard could just see the embroidered initials in purple on the corner: M.L. She clenched her fist around the delicate lawn, her entire body now shaking, and the envelope slipped from her fingers, spilling the photographs across the floor.

 

Richard did not remember gathering them up, only the image of one seared across his eyes. Father, tied to a chair, a paper crown tilted crazily on his head. His face a mass of bruises, eyes wild and unfocused and agonised. And, behind him, Margaret, not a hair out of place, leaning down, handkerchief in hand, pausing only to bestow a dazzling smile on the photographer.

 

"Finish this, Edward." He barely recognised his mother's voice, low and raw like the grind of the glass beneath his feet. "I want her to bleed."

 

Richard looked down at the photograph, where his fingers had left streaks of red across the grainy black-and-white image. "Oh, don't you worry, Mother." He looked up, still seeing nothing but his father's face. "She will."

 


	2. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity

Elizabeth Woodville-Grey should have been in pictures. If the rumours were true, she nearly had been, only to turn round at the last minute and get married instead. For that alone, Anne disliked her. Who in their right mind would choose marriage--which anyone could do, given sufficient time and effort--over being a film star?

 

Only bird-brained girls like Bel and, evidently, Elizabeth Woodville-Grey. Although the more Anne pondered the latter, the more she grudgingly conceded that Edward York's new wife might be rather less empty-headed than she gave herself out to be. After all, a bare six months before, she'd been a widow with barely enough in her pockets to feed her children. To jump from that to Chanel and caviar must have been well nigh dizzying.

 

Of course, she'd never have done it if she weren't beautiful. Bel hated her for that. She'd got over her ill-fated fancy for Edward some time before, thank goodness, but that hardly meant she wouldn't begrudge whoever _did_ marry him. Especially if she were a golden-haired goddess who could bring entire rooms to a standstill by simply walking in.

 

Anne wanted to point out that, knowing Edward's history, nobody could have predicted otherwise, but Bel was far too interested in turning the full force of her charm upon poor, hapless George and sharpening her claws on whatever rumours she could pick up about the erstwhile Mrs Woodville-Grey. Electing to preserve the no doubt decimated remains of her wits, Anne let the majority of anything her sister said drift in one ear and out the other and concentrated her attentions on the object of Bel's scorn.

 

"Do you see anything interesting?" The voice at her ear made her start, and she whirled to face Edward's youngest brother, the wreck of his back almost hidden by an ingeniously cut suit. That was unexpected; she hadn't pegged him as vain.

 

Anne shrugged, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "It's always interesting to watch people when they don't notice you're there." She would have done the same to him, except for the rather unsettling fact that he always seemed to notice somehow. But she supposed the strange, quiet young man who was rumoured to have been the guiding genius behind the so-called Palm Sunday Massacre of '33 was the sort of person who had eyes in the back of his head.

 

"You're wrong, you know," he was saying, his gaze focused on his brother and Elizabeth. "They only ever let you see what they want you to see. It's the key to Ned's success. The image of perfection, with no hint of what's behind."

 

"You?"

 

He cracked a smile, an odd, crooked thing. "How flattering. But you overestimate me. I'm just his younger brother."

 

She wanted to ask him about trip wires across a dozen doorways and guns hidden in flower boxes, how forty men were somehow systematically slaughtered as they tried to escape the inferno that had once been the Lancaster estate in Essex, still a mouldering ruin two years later. The words danced on the tip of her tongue, but something in his face forestalled her, as if he knew how much she longed to know if it _was_ his idea. Richard York, his father's namesake. If the rumours were true, forty men had died at his instigation a bare few months before his sixteenth birthday. Although Henry and his wife had managed to escape all the same, buying passage on a fishing boat across the Channel. There was that flaw in his grand plan.

 

As if reading her mind, he shrugged. "We'll find her sooner or later. Paris isn't _that_ large."

 

"And what, pray, do you plan to do with her when you do find her?" Anne turned away from him, taking a drag on her cigarette. "I doubt she'll be amenable to any suggestion of yours."

 

"I don't think being amenable has anything to do with it." There was something chilling in his voice, something that made Anne shift uncomfortably. "You disapprove."

 

"I don't think anything," she replied, tossing away the words as lightly as she could before turning back to offer him a cloyingly sweet smile. "I'm just Bel's younger sister."

 

"Touché." His laughter caught her by surprise, all the more because it seemed genuine. "You do know your father had meant for Ned to marry an heiress. A particular one, I seem to remember."

 

Anne fiddled with the cigarette, recalling her father's many words on the subject. They could be heard throughout the house, despite her mother's desperate attempts to calm him. "You remember correctly. She had a very silly name, but the match would have given Father a share in the Union des Banques Suisses. Naturally, he was terribly upset."

 

"Not too upset to appear tonight," he said.

 

"Oh, he couldn't possibly have missed the _grand début_ of your sister-in-law," Anne replied with her most innocent smile. "I'm told it's the event of the social season, although you mustn't tell Bel that."

 

He snorted. "Your sister and I avoid one another on principle. I think we're perfectly content to pretend the other doesn't exist."

 

"A feat which will be made considerably easier should she become your other sister-in-law."

 

"I see your father's plans continue apace." They were both watching Bel and George now, catching the poisonous looks cast at the newlyweds. "He does know that George is a prize idiot."

 

"Well, at least he'll be _his_ prize idiot, rather than Elizabeth Woodville-Grey's. Not that it especially matters." She glanced at him through lowered lashes. "Now that you know, I don't doubt that Ned will nip any such ideas in the bud."

 

He studied her for a moment, head tilted in a manner eerily reminiscent of his mother. "I can only imagine you want something in return."

 

Anne smiled. "I need your mother's help. And since Father isn't speaking to Ned, and George is worse than useless, I see no other way."

 

"You see a great deal, Miss Warwick. My mother should call on you in a few days." And, with that, he limped toward Edward, the mahogany cane tapping in time to the music.

 

As promised, Cecily York arrived just in time for tea the next day, much to Anne's mother's consternation. Anne watched with well-concealed admiration as that lady deflected Isabel's heated questions about her new daughter-in-law while encouraging her mother's confidences on the subject of her father's moods. It was only when Anne herself suggested a stroll in Hyde Park that she managed to catch Mrs York alone.

 

"I was told," Mrs York said, deliberately slowing her steps such that Anne's mother and Isabel moved further away, "that you wished to speak to me."

 

"I do, Mrs York," replied Anne. "My father has never approved of the higher education of women, and Mother will not gainsay him. I was told that you studied at Newnham College, and had hoped you might put in a good word for me."

 

She had the same direct stare as her youngest son, though her eyes were blue like Edward's. "You wish to countermand your father?"

 

"I wish to be educated, ma'am. I don't see it as such a sin." She considered briefly before continuing. "I am no beauty, Mrs York, not like my sister." _Or Elizabeth Woodville-Grey_. "And I have no desire to be sold to the highest bidder who will take me for my money and spend it all on his mistresses."

 

That prompted a smile, albeit a fleeting one. "You have a cynical view of marriage."

 

"How can I not, with my parents?" Anne stopped, taking both of her hands. "Please. I can't bear it here."

 

There was an odd light of sympathy in the older woman's eyes. "Leave it to me, my dear. I will do what I can."

 

***

 

Cecily York was as good as her word. Some ten months later, Anne received a letter from Newnham College, Cambridge, offering her a place for the upcoming academic year. A letter now pinched between her father's fingers, tapping on the burnished wood surface of his desk.

 

"And what, exactly, do you propose to gain by this?" He settled back in his chair, leather squeaking beneath his weight. It was rare enough that he was in London these days, and she had managed to catch him several hours before he was due to depart for Paris for what seemed like the hundredth time. Of course, it was a mistake to assume that just because he was on the verge of leaving, he could be caught off guard. "They don't confer degrees on women, you know."

 

"I'm aware of it, Father. I merely wish to enrich my mind. Is that a problem?"

 

Her father's nose wrinkled. "You are a young lady with a great fortune, Annie. This college business is little more than a waste of time and funds."

 

"But it will make me happy." Anne leant forward so she was looking at him through her lashes as Bel did. "Daddy, please?"

 

"Oh, Annie," he chuckled, "a valiant effort, but you'll need a great deal more practice. And it's not the sort of thing one learns at a women's college."

 

"How do you know that?" she demanded, cheeks flushing. "I want to go. And you shan't stop me." Snatching the letter from him, she stormed out of the room, his laughter echoing in her wake.

 

It was Bel who found her later, head buried beneath her pillow. In a whiff of expensive silk and flowery scent, she settled on the bed. "I just can't see why you want to go to some stuffy college. Don't you want a Season?"

 

Anne refused to dignify that with anything more than a groan.

 

"Well," Bel mused, "I suppose there will be a lot of men about, it being Cambridge. No doubt you'll find someone suitable there. Although..." Anne could all but hear the smile in her voice, and withdrew her head to glare at her sister, "there is always George's younger brother."

 

"Bel, don't you think of anything else?"

 

"I'm only looking out for you, Annie," her sister protested. "You need to think about your future."

 

"Which is why I'm going to Cambridge, Bel. No matter what Father says." Anne pulled herself upright, hugging the pillow tightly. "And don't look at me that way. I'm not _you_ , Bel. I don't want a Season and a closetful of gowns I'm never going to wear. And just because I spoke to George's brother doesn't mean I'm at all interested."

 

Bel's shoulders relaxed. "Thank goodness, Annie. He gives me the shivers."

 

Anne opened her mouth to agree but closed it again, suddenly unsure. "He's a bit odd, yes."

 

"I suppose it makes sense, though. When you think of his poor mother, and what happened to his father..." Bel shook her head. "It's a miracle, really, that Ned and George turned out as well as they did."

 

"Bel," Anne took her sister's hand, "will you help me convince Father? He'll listen to you."

 

"But is it truly what you want, Annie?" Bel's eyes were the limpid blue of the summer sky, all sweetness. "If it is, of course, I'll help you. But..."

 

"It is. I know you don't understand, but I promise you it's what I want."

 

Isabel had no talent for manipulation, and, indeed, was possibly the worst liar Anne had ever met. But what she lacked in talent, she made up for with an air of angelic innocence and the enviable ability to burst into tears on the spot. The next time their father was in London, some few weeks later, Bel went to work while Anne prowled about the library, trying to distract herself.

 

It was her father who entered, a wry smile on his face. "My congratulations. She cried very prettily and would not leave me be until I promised to let you go to Cambridge."

 

"I play to my strengths, Father. One of them simply happens to be Bel. Although," she added, "I did have a contingency plan."

 

He raised his eyebrows. "Did you, now?"

 

"Either you let me go to Cambridge," Anne paused for effect, "or I tell Cecily York about how much time you've been spending in Paris recently."

 

"Oh, Annie." Her father laughed. "I have no doubt that Cecily York knows all she might wish to know about my activities. But I appreciate your efforts, and I suppose you might go to Cambridge, at least until it bores you."

 

Despite the sting of embarrassment, Anne accepted her victory as gracefully as she could, and consoled herself with the fact that she would be going to Cambridge after all.

 

It was everything she could have hoped for. London and her parents seemed a thousand miles away from the tranquil Cam and perfectly manicured quads, and even Bel's letters extolling the virtues of Paris fashion and George York could not mar Anne's spirits.

 

Even so, the rest of the world seemed determined to creep into Cambridge. She sat with a group of girls in the common room at Girton, listening to the wireless as King Edward gave up the throne for Wallis Simpson, and Anne could not help but remember the looks passed between Edward York and Elizabeth Woodville-Grey and wonder how they were faring. Her friends who had gone on holiday during Christmas returned with confusing stories about Paris and Berlin and red flags with bizarre symbols that seemed to be popping up everywhere.

 

Bel, of course, made no mention of these things and ignored them when Anne brought them up. At least that was the case until Bel appeared in her doorway one stormy evening in March, her face alight with excitement and a diamond sparkling on her wedding finger.

 

"We're married, Annie!"

 

Anne could only stare at her for several seconds before finally saying, "I still can't believe you've chosen to spend the rest of your life with _George_."

 

"He's such a dear, Annie, really. If you'd only get to know him, and you _will_ now that he's your brother..."

 

"But what about Ned?" Anne stood, noting the uncertainty on her sister's face at the mention of her newly acquired brother-in-law. "He knows, doesn't he, Bel? Tell me Father told him."

 

Bel shrugged. "Of course he must have done. Although, I don't see why it matters. George isn't a child. He doesn't need Ned's permission for anything anymore."

 

Anne felt a cold stab of unease. "Ned's not an idiot, Bel, no matter what Father thinks. And don't start me on..."

 

"It doesn't matter, Annie. We're married now, in the eyes of God and man." She straightened, but her lips still formed a childish pout. "And nothing Ned or that jumped-up wife of his can do will change that." Bel held out her hands, falling to her knees in front of Anne's chair. "Be happy for me, Annie, please. It's what I wanted. And you're happy here, aren't you? With all your...books?"

 

Anne sighed. "Yes, I am happy here, Bel. And I wish you all the best with George, I _do_. But, Bel, this just doesn't seem right. Didn't you want a grand wedding? A white dress and," she grimaced, "me in pink or something dreadful like that? You've been threatening it for years."

 

"I did, yes, but this was the only way, Daddy said." There was a visible moue of disappointment. "I would have liked a proper wedding at St George's, but...what does it matter now, anyway? I'm married all the same. And Daddy has promised me a proper trousseau in Paris. Annie, please. Will you come with us?"

 

"If it's not during term-time," she found herself saying, "I suppose. I daresay someone must keep you from buying anything too horrid."

 

"Horrid!" Bel laughed. "You'd have me in nothing but black and pearls, which won't suit me in the least." She threw her arms around Anne. "I miss you, Annie."

 

Anne kept her misgivings to herself, even when she received a congratulatory letter from Cecily York. Though she sought to read between the lines to find some indication of what Ned--or anyone else--really thought of George's marriage, there was nothing. That was somehow far more troubling than any display of rage.

 

Easter Term came to an end in a haze of exams, punts, and Pimm's cocktails, and Anne prepared for the upcoming journey for Paris. Bel was in raptures at the gorgeous flat in the Marais, but Anne kept her attention on her father, who was smiling in a manner she could only find sinister.

 

He took her aside in the library some few weeks later. "Your sister seems very happy, does she not?" At Anne's noncommittal shrug, he settled himself into the chair opposite her. "Annie, I know you do not have a particularly good opinion of George."

 

"Does that matter?" Anne set her book aside. "Bel is already married to him, so it's quite clear how much my opinion is worth."

 

"Annie, don't be difficult. I too have come to find him...disappointing." The words were oddly expressionless, and Anne narrowed her eyes at him. "As a result, I have decided to take certain measures." Rising, he held out his hand to her. "There's someone I wish you to meet, Annie."

 

Despite her unease, Anne nodded, and followed him to the taxi waiting outside. It pulled to a stop in the Place Vendôme, just outside the Ritz. Her father walked straight to the lift, nodding in passing to the concierge, and Anne began to wonder how often he'd come here, how long this had all been happening. He claimed that Cecily York--and by extension Ned--knew already, but what did that even mean?

 

A maid in shabby but well-kept livery opened the door to one of the luxury _appartements_. She was saying something to Anne's father, but Anne could only stare at the woman standing by the window, clad in black from head to toe, red-painted lips clamped round the ivory handle of a cigarette holder. It was only when she smiled that Anne realised with a soft gasp where she had seen her before, in a grainy photograph, standing next to Edward York's father with just such a smile, perfect and cold.

 

Margaret Lancaster.

 


	3. I do but dream on sovereignty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some liberties with the timeline in this section. Shakespeare's version diverges from the historical timeline by placing Warwick's alliance with Margaret before George's marriage to Isabel, which, although it gives us the (probably) unintentional hilarity of Act III, Scene III of 3HVI, doesn't actually make any sense from either Warwick's or George's point of view. So I have proceeded on the assumption that many, many things are happening offstage. Also, fair warning for excessive quotation of Machiavelli, and deeply dodgy politics.

Richard twirled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. It was his third that night; Ned and Hastings had nicked the first two, each remarking that a precious ration was wasted on him when he didn't even smoke the damned things.

 

Somehow, it had all turned into a bloody mess.

 

He should have guessed as soon as George insisted on engaging himself to Isabel Warwick in spite of Ned's objections. George developing a spine ought to have been warning enough. Yet, somehow--and Richard couldn't forgive himself for this oversight--he and Ned had let George slip through their fingers, just before frantic word arrived from Paris that Warwick and his newly-acquired son-in-law had been seen dining at Maxim's with Margaret Lancaster.

 

Even then, Ned had reacted with customary aplomb, unwilling to believe that George of all people would find the nerve to turn traitor. Least of all when George returned to London for Christmas, pretending nothing had happened.

 

"You're an idiot, George, if you think anyone is going to believe that, least of all Ned," he'd said, as his eyes strayed to Isabel, hovering behind George.

 

"Dickon, really." Already he was mimicking Warwick's mannerisms, rolling the words across his tongue as if tasting them, arching his back like a prideful cat. "Bel and I love one another. Why shouldn't we have married?"

 

Richard just looked at him, infusing the glare with as much scorn as he could see fit to muster. Much to his satisfaction, George's smile faltered, turning petulant.

 

"It's those damned Woodvilles, Dickon!" he hissed. "They've got Ned under their thumb, and he's content so long as that wife of his spreads her--" Catching Isabel's flushed cheeks from the corner of his eye, he cleared his throat. "You know what I mean."

 

"I don't see your point."

 

"Stop playing coy," snapped George. "You've said the same thing before and you know it."

 

Richard leant heavily on his cane as he rose to his feet. "I've never doubted that Ned's marriage was...unfortunate. But it's done, George. We can't change it."

 

"Can't we?"

 

They looked at one another across the cluttered desk. "Not like this. Not by wining and dining the woman who killed our father. Or have you forgotten that?"

 

George winced. "Do you honestly think I could?"

 

"You're doing a damned fine job of it so far." Richard made his way across the room, deliberately slowing his steps. "I'd suggest civility. And once Christmas is over, get out before you say something we'll all regret." Turning to Isabel, he inclined his head. "I'd congratulate you on the fine match but I do hate to lie."

 

Without waiting for an answer, he thrust open the door and stalked into the corridor, leaving George and Isabel staring in his wake.

 

He had to give them both some credit for discretion after that. Even Warwick paid a flying visit on Christmas Eve to offer belated congratulations to Ned and Elizabeth on the birth of their daughter.

 

The sight of Anne had caught him off-guard, not in the least because she was wearing red and it suited her. Ned had already remarked upon it though Anne, to her credit, did not vouchsafe so much as a blush. Beside her, Isabel's cheeks had already flushed pinker than her dress at whatever Ned was saying to her.

 

"Do you trust him?" The voice was low-pitched and resonant, its accents flawlessly patrician as only a woman who had clawed her way to Society's peak could manage. "George, I mean."

 

"One can always trust George," Richard replied, sotto voce. "It's simply a question of what he can be trusted to do."

 

Elizabeth had perfected the sort of frown that most women could only imagine, all pursed lips and not a line in sight to mar her face. "And what is that?"

 

"Whatever he feels is in his best interests, be damned to everyone else. George is a supremely selfish person. However, he lacks the mental capacity to do anything about it. Hence," he gestured toward Isabel, "Warwick."

 

"I don't like it."

 

"Neither does Ned. But it can't be helped now. We've got to work with it." He could feel her eyes on him, restless and questioning.

 

"Something must be done about Warwick," she said. "You've heard the rumours, I'm sure."

 

"About Margaret Lancaster?" Richard shrugged. "It does seem improbable, but the source is beyond reproach. What we don't have is proof that he's _done_ anything. And so long as Ned can keep him in the country we at least have a better chance of finding out what he's up to."

 

In the end, it was Ned who succeeded in convincing both Warwick and George that a shooting-party in Yorkshire was just the thing, leaving Richard with whispered instructions to find out as much as he possibly could. "I don't care how, Dickon," Ned said, his eyes on Warwick. "I need to know what he's planning."

 

"He has to know, Ned. He's not an idiot."

 

"No," his brother murmured with a quirked smile, "but he is under the distinct impression that I am."

 

Richard couldn't argue that point. Elizabeth, however, did, the moment Warwick left.

 

"Have you lost your mind completely?" she demanded. "Is this your brilliant plan? To crouch in Yorkshire bracken with Warwick and George until one of them takes it upon themselves to shoot you instead of the fowl?"

 

"Lizzy, do stop worrying. Hastings will be there, and your father offered to come..."

 

"My _father_?" his wife all but shrieked. "I hope you refused."

 

"Nothing's going to happen--"

 

"You can't know that!" Elizabeth grabbed his hands and gazed at him imploringly. "Ned, even you don't trust him. You've told me so a thousand times. _Please_ don't do this."

 

"She does have a point, Ned," Richard volunteered, prompting both his brother and sister-in-law to remember he was there. "When faced with two men who hold grudges against you, one of whom is Warwick, it seems rather inadvisable to hand them rifles."

 

"If Warwick wanted to kill me, I'm certain he would have done so by now."

 

"That doesn't mean it's a good idea to offer him the opportunity on a silver platter."

 

" _E tu_ , Dickon?"

 

Elizabeth sighed. "Will you listen to him at least, Ned? You are always going on about how clever he is."

 

Richard held up his hands. "I was merely offering my opinion."

 

Ned sank onto the cushioned bench beside the stairs. "Will neither of you understand that I have a plan?"

 

"We acknowledge that you have a plan," said Elizabeth. "We also wish to point out that it's a very bad plan. But," she stepped back, holding up her hands, "if you insist, go on!"

 

"Lizzy, really--"

 

"I don't wish to discuss it any further." Turning on her heel, she stalked up the stairs and let the bedroom door slam behind her.

 

"Dickon?"

 

"I'm not saying anything." And he kept to that, even when the shooting party returned from Yorkshire several days early, bearing George with a cast on his leg. Apparently, owing to some unfortunate confusion regarding the location of a pheasant nest, someone had shot him through the knee. Ned later confessed that he had insisted upon George borrowing his hat some two hours prior to the incident and presented Elizabeth with a mink as an extravagant apology for not taking her advice.

 

"I wish to point out," Richard informed his brother dryly, "that I still insist upon first preference where limited seating is concerned."

 

The accident, naturally, made it impossible for George to leave London for several months, during which he did his level best to make the entire household as miserable as possible. Even Isabel's supposedly infinite patience gave out in a screaming match that ended with three broken vases and George locked in the powder-room for two hours. Richard let him out only after Isabel had stormed into the January wind, muttering something about Harrods.

 

George glared at him. "You can stop being so bloody self-righteous, Dickon."

 

"Maybe I should lock the door again if you're going to keep this up."

 

Moving far quicker than a man on crutches ought to have done, George hobbled past him into the corridor. "I'll get him back. Just you wait."

 

"I can only assume you mean Ned."

 

"Stop being coy. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

 

Richard took his time before remarking that perhaps he ought to have considered that before trying to shoot Ned in the first place, if only to enjoy the expression of comical rage on his brother's face.

 

Perhaps he ought to have been more circumspect. But it was far too much fun to wind George up, and rare enough that he allowed himself the luxury. And, besides, it had been a clean shot, and the doctor had assured George that, if he did as he was told, he would regain full use of his leg. This last said without looking at Richard.

 

Warwick had, much to everybody's surprise, chosen to stay in London for the full period of George's convalescence, although his younger daughter had fled back to Cambridge at the first possible opportunity. Richard could hardly blame her for that and told her as much, eliciting a wry smile.

 

"Perhaps it's shameful, but I don't care," she said, straightening to look him in the eye. "I'm not married to him."

 

"Thank God for small miracles?"

 

Anne laughed. "Poor Bel. I still can't understand why she did it."

 

"Miss Warwick," Richard lowered his voice, stepping closer to her, "I'm quite certain it was your father's doing."

 

The smile disappeared from Anne's face, replaced by a shuttered mask. "It was a good match in theory. Simply not in practice."

 

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

 

She lowered her eyes for a split second before looking at him again. "I don't think it will matter in the end whether I do or not."

 

Richard held out his hand on reflex. "Are you so certain of that?"

 

"I am sorry. But this is larger than my father and Ned. Far, far larger." She shivered, drawing the furred collar of her coat higher about her neck. "I don't know anything useful. If I did, I would--"

 

She stopped short, eyes suddenly focused behind Richard. When he glanced over his shoulder, he found Warwick looking back at him, his expression thoughtful.

 

It really was only a matter of time before Warwick invited him to his club for a drink. Ensconced in a predictable leather armchair and slowly nursing a truly excellent Scotch, Richard was even willing to endure the usual small talk, but Warwick surprised him by coming directly to the point.

 

"I have no doubt, Dickon, that you are aware of how your brother has disappointed me."

 

"I'm sure you'll pardon me for saying, sir, that the blind man who lives in the subway under Marble Arch knows how my brother has disappointed you."

 

Warwick's smile was all the more surprising for being genuine. "You don't mince words, do you?"

 

"One of the few luxuries granted to one in my position," Richard replied, raising his glass in a mocking toast. "But, yes, I do know. Ned's marriage was...unexpected."

 

"I could have given him the Continent, Dickon. The young lady Bonne Savoyen was everything he could have wanted and more." He sighed, retrieving a Cuban cigar from the box beside his chair. "You see, don't you, how that woman and her family are ruining Ned?"

 

Richard made a non-committal noise. What he saw never quite seemed to agree with what everybody around him insisted he saw.

 

"They're Communists," Warwick hissed. "Or close enough for my tastes. Have you seen them? That brother of hers might as well write for _Pravda_. And don't start me on the mother."

 

"I do seem to remember seeing something about unsavoury connections in Paris, although," Richard paused for effect, "to be fair, it was in your paper."

 

Warwick held up his hands. "They report what they hear. It's a pity when such things come to light. Of course, Ned seems disinclined to listen to reason." He took a long drag on the cigar. "He's always had a predilection for beautiful women--with his looks, who wouldn't? But this was badly done, Dickon, badly done."

 

"So I've been told."

 

"Dickon, you're a young man with great gifts. Your father always spoke very highly of you." At Richard's nodded acknowledgement, he continued. "And there's so much more to the world than managing Ned's estate. Wouldn't you like to be part of something greater, something that will change the very face of this world?"

 

"To what exactly are you referring, sir?"

 

"The British Empire, on which the sun never sets, is falling into decay as Rome did before it, and something must be done." Richard suspected he was meant to state aloud the conclusion he had already reached, but instead merely smiled. Warwick's returned grin was wolfish. "You want me to say it."

 

"I would hate for there to be any sort of misunderstanding between us."

 

"Germany."

 

"Fascism, you mean." Richard took a slow drink. "I had wondered if your inclinations had followed those of our former King."

 

"Another whose predilection for unsuitable women led him to ruin," Warwick observed with a sigh. "Ned ought to have taken heed. But the time for that is long past." His eyes met Richard's, dark and unreadable as his daughter's. "I could make you exceedingly wealthy."

 

"I already am."

 

"Ned's money is not yours." He cleared his throat. "Not yet, at any rate."

 

"You forget your son-in-law."

 

Warwick waved his hand dismissively. "George is a great disappointment."

 

"Not that great, surely. You can't have expected very much of him." Richard's fingers danced on the ivory handle of his cane. "What you gained in tractability, you lost in brains."

 

"I shan't make that mistake again."

 

"It certainly does not seem so. Margaret Lancaster," he paused, gauging the other man's reaction and finding disappointingly little, "is many things, but tractable is not one of them."

 

"Dickon, do stop dancing about."

 

"But it's the only way for me to dance."

 

"Touché." Warwick laughed shortly. "Very well. I'm asking you to join me, Dickon. You're far too clever to spend your life in Ned's shadow."

 

Richard looked at him long and hard before rising to his feet. "Do you take me for a fool, sir?"

 

"Why, no, Dickon. Surely the fact that I'm telling you anything at all indicates that I think nothing of the sort." A frown twitched at the other's mouth, betraying him. "Come, now. Speak your mind."

 

"As you said, sir, there are many things that one hears about Germany in this great day and age, not the least of which is that _der Führer_ is building a perfect race." Leaning heavily on his cane, he pulled off the glove covering his ruined left hand. "I can assure you, sir, that I would have no place in the Third Reich's world order."

 

Warwick's eyes flickered briefly downward, and back up to Richard's face. "Disappointing. I had expected a less simplistic outlook."

 

"Simplicity has nothing to do with it, sir. This is fact." With a flick of his good hand, twisted fingers disappeared from view beneath a mask of black leather. "Like it or not, Hitler has no use for cripples, however clever."

 

"Hitler will not be around forever." Warwick rose to his rather impressive full height, some half a head taller than Richard. "At least consider it."

 

Richard nodded slowly. "I hope you know, sir, that I am gratified for the offer, regardless of my final decision."

 

"I would not make you a catspaw, Dickon. I do hope you understand that. I have too much respect for you."

 

"I should hope so. I should hate to die in as undignified a manner as George so nearly did."

 

Warwick let out a bark of laughter. "I must give Ned credit for that particular turn of events. He has the damndest luck."

 

"That he does." Richard smiled. "Fortuna favours the bold."

 

"Indeed." Warwick seemed to consider for a moment before adding, as Richard finished the last of his Scotch, "Oh, Dickon, something I nearly forgot. What, exactly, is going on between you and my daughter?"

 

"Your daughter?" Richard blinked. "I wasn't aware that anything was going on."

 

"Annie is..." he shook his head, "difficult, on occasion. But she is cleverer than one might anticipate."

 

"She does see a great deal, yes." Richard allowed, for the first time unsure of where this was leading. "Am I to assume, sir, that you are proposing some sort of alliance?"

 

"You may assume that." Warwick, as if sensing Richard's hesitation, stepped closer. "I must admit, it hadn't occurred to me before, but now that I think on it..."

 

"Sir, with all due respect," Richard interjected, "I haven't agreed to anything."

 

Warwick looked at him for a moment, then held out his hand. "Of course you haven't. Take all the time you need."

 

Richard shook the proffered hand, meeting Warwick's eyes as he did so. "And if I refuse?"

 

"Then that will be that."

 

"No retribution?"

 

Warwick's smile flickered behind the cigar. "I cannot promise that accidents will not happen, Dickon. I can give you my word that I'd bear you no malice. A man must look out for himself, after all. But I can't help but think my Annie would get the worse end of the bargain if you decided to stay with Ned."

 

"As you said, a man must look out for himself."

 

Warwick chuckled. "I hope you plan to milk Ned for all he's worth. He doesn't deserve you."

 

"Just desserts rarely happen in this world, but I'll keep it in mind." With a last grin of his own, Richard made his slow, methodical way to the door.

 

It should not have surprised him then, that Warwick bided his time. And that the blow, when it came, was swift. They all listened, even little Elizabeth on her father's lap, Ned's eyes wide and uncomprehending in her face, as Prime Minister Chamberlain handed the Sudetenland to Hitler for hollow-tinged promises of peace.

 

"Peace for our time," echoed Ned, ruffling his daughter's hair. "I thought the last war was meant to give us that."

 

"It won't last." Elizabeth's brother Anthony looked up from a battered book he'd been poring over in the corner. "He'll eat the Continent alive, and we're letting him do it."

 

"Tony, please." Elizabeth placed her hands over the little girl's ears. "Not in front of the children."

 

"They'll know soon enough when they're forced to learn German in school--"

 

"Enough!" she snapped. "Ned, switch it off."

 

Richard's fingers twitched toward the telegram in his jacket pocket, arrived just that morning from Berlin: _Amando li uomini a posta loro, e temendo a posta del principe, debbe uno principe savio fondarsi in su quello che è suo, non in su quello che è d'altri_.[1]

 

It was damned tempting. He could hardly deny that, Machiavelli notwithstanding. He might even have given Warwick the benefit of the doubt as to his purported respect. The fact that he'd told Richard anything at all had to mean something.

 

All the same, as his attention drifted to Ned, he found himself wondering at the one thing Machiavelli had confessed the greatest prince could not control. Even Warwick had said it himself--Ned had the damndest luck.

 

And if Fortuna was indeed a woman, Richard had no doubt which man she would choose. He sent his reply the next morning: _Bisogna che elli abbi uno animo disposto a volgersi secondo ch'e' venti e le variazioni della fortuna li comandono.[2] Although I cannot regret it as such, I regret that it came to this_.

 

In retrospect, trying to predict Fortuna's whims was not the cleverest of Richard's ideas. This was confirmed less than a year later when he was awakened at gone three in the morning by the sound of desperate pounding on the door to his flat.

 

"Richard! For God's sake, open the bloody door!" He recognised William Hastings' voice, filled with uncharacteristic panic. "It's Ned, dammit! It's all gone to hell in a handbasket, and I've got no idea what to do..."

 

Ignoring the twinges of pain in his leg, Richard limped to the door and pulled it open. "Get inside, quickly."

 

Hastings' story spilled out in a somewhat incoherent torrent and his hands were shaking around the glass of whisky Richard had given him. Something about Ned meeting a mysterious woman at the Ritz--at this, Richard lowered his forehead into his hands, knowing exactly where things were going--and the next thing they knew, Warwick appeared. "He must have paid her off, the bastard."

 

"He knows Ned's weaknesses," Richard mused. "Where did he meet her?"

 

"A party. I can't remember which." Hastings leant back in the chair. "Christ, Richard, what are we going to do?"

 

Richard didn't answer at first, his eye caught by the newspaper he'd left sitting on the table earlier that evening. _Germans invade and bomb Poland. Britain mobilises_.

 

"The entire world has gone to hell in a handbasket, Hastings," he said. "But what I don't understand is what on earth Warwick is doing _here_..." trailing off, he reached for the paper. "He can't stay long. Not in his position. He'll need to get out of England before they detain him for being a Nazi collaborator."

 

Hastings caught sight of the headline and let out a quiet but vicious string of profanities. "I expect I'll find a telegram at home, demanding my immediate presence." At Richard's querying look, he added, "RAF, '19 to '31. I hadn't thought they'd need me again, but..." His eyes widened. "Hold on."

 

"What?"

 

"Do you remember when Ned got that bee in his bonnet about learning how to fly? Before Lizzy Grey," that with an expressive eyeroll, "made her grand entrance?"

 

"I think I do," Richard said slowly. "Our mother nearly had a fit when he told her. She thought he was going to get himself killed, and you suggested the Volunteer Reserves, so he'd at least learn from people who knew what they were doing..."

 

Hastings was smiling widely. "Warwick can't hold him. He's got an ironclad excuse. Serving God and Country."

 

" _Dulce et decorum est_ , and so forth," Richard added with a grin of his own. "Are they still at the Ritz?"

 

"Either there, or Warwick's house, I should think."

 

"Right." Richard started toward the bedroom. "Stop at Curzon Street, see if there's a telegram for Ned. If so, bring it, and I'll meet you at the Ritz. If not..." he waved his hand, "I'll think of something. Hurry!"

 

It was with a positively glowing sense of satisfaction that Richard stepped out of the lift at the Ritz to find himself facing Warwick. Reaching into his pocket, he held up the official telegram from the Chief of Air Staff calling for permanent service one Edward York, RAFVR.

 

Warwick's smile did not reach his eyes. "You've outdone yourself, Dickon."

 

"Have you read the headlines?" Richard asked sweetly. "I'll give you three hours before I inform the authorities. I'm sure they'll be positively dying to track down one of the men responsible for the Prime Minister's little overindulgence last year."

 

The smile flickered out. "Pity."

 

"I suggest you make for Dover and leave my brother to me."

 

Warwick might have said more, but one of the men guarding the door murmured something in his ear. With one last lingering look at Richard, he stepped past him into the lift.

 

Ned, who had been lounging half-dressed near the window, jumped to his feet as they opened the door, a smile breaking across his face. "I don't think I've ever been happier to see you, Dickon."

 

"You might be less happy when you see this." Richard handed him the telegram. "You missed the news. We are officially at war with Germany, and you have been ordered to report for duty."

 

A frown pinched between his brows, Ned read the telegram. "I suppose I have been." He looked at Hastings. "Does Lizzy know?"

 

"I can't say. But you haven't the time, Ned." Hastings tossed a suitcase onto the bed. "We need to go, and quickly."

 

He hesitated, glancing between the letter and the suitcase. "Have I got time to write her a note, at least? Dickon?"

 

Richard nodded. "Get dressed first. You dictate, I'll write it."

 

About halfway through the dictation, Ned snatched the pen from Richard's hand, adding several scrawled lines below Richard's carefully formed script. After signing it, he handed the folded paper to Richard. "See that she gets it, Dickon."

 

The note, which Richard reread as the car made its way from the Ritz back to Curzon Street in the twilight, caught him rather by surprise.

 

_Darling--_

_First and foremost, I need you to keep calm. Withdraw as much in sterling from Dyal's as they permit you. Then, take the children and go to Carnarvon Hall. Take whatever servants you need, but make certain you've shut up the house before you go. Do not, under any circumstances, stay in London._

_Do not fear for me, love. Take care of yourself and the children, and remember that, no matter what happens, I will always come back for you._

_Your own,_

_Edward_

 

Richard tucked the letter into his pocket and sighed.

 

Yes. It had all turned into a great bloody mess.

  


* * *

[1] Machiavelli, _Il Principe_ , Cap. XVII: 'I conclude that since men love at their own inclination but can be made to fear at the inclination of the prince, a shrewd prince will lay his foundations on what is under his own control, not on what is controlled by others.'

[2] Machiavelli, _Il Principe_ , Cap. XVIII: 'Thus he has to have a mind ready to shift as the winds of fortune and the varying circumstances of life may dictate.'

 


	4. Anointed let me be with deadly venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left out of _3 Henry VI_ presumably for reasons of space is Warwick and Clarence's disastrous flight to France in 1470, where their ship was refused entry to Calais even taking into account the fact that Clarence's wife was nine months pregnant. Warning for somewhat graphic depiction of childbirth.

Anne could pinpoint the exact moment when her life shattered. Precisely thirteen minutes past four in the morning on the second of September 1939, when Bel threw open the door to her bedroom, shrieking like a cat.

 

"We need to go, Annie! Daddy says we must leave for Paris now! Wake up!"

 

Blearily, Anne threw a pillow at her. "Go away."

 

"Didn't you hear me?" Bel shook her by the shoulder. "We need to go. _Now_."

 

Pregnancy had sharpened Bel's already mercurial moods, and Anne dragged herself out of bed if only to avoid the headache likely to result if she continued to argue. "I'm awake, I'm awake. Leave me alone."

 

But Bel hovered over her, hands clamped over her swollen belly, until Anne had finished dressing. She had barely enough time to shove her jewel-case and the few books scattered round the room into a bag before Bel grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the corridor.

 

Their father was pacing back and forth in the front hall, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "It's about bloody time! We haven't a moment to lose." Without waiting for Anne's inevitable question, he threw open the door and stormed out, leaving the sisters staring after him in baffled silence.

 

"Girls! Stop dithering." Mother emerged from her bedroom, carrying a small suitcase and looking for all the world like she was heading out on holiday to some glamorous resort. "I've had your things packed since last night. Now, go on!"

 

It did not take very long for the situation in the rear seat of the Bentley, where Anne was squeezed between George and Bel--Mother having refused to even contemplate a seating arrangement that might damage her precious ermine coat--to become simply intolerable. Her father, a reckless driver on the best of days, barely lifted his foot from the accelerator until they'd roared through Maidstone.

 

Bel's hand was clamped so tightly around Anne's that she winced. "Bel, you're crushing my fingers. Bel?"

 

But her sister did not respond, eyes screwed shut as a shudder ran through her. Outside the Bentley's windows, snatches of scenery flew past, too quickly to see. As the car jolted over the latest pothole, Bel whimpered, burying her face in Anne's shoulder.

 

"My God, Richard, must you drive so quickly?" hissed Mother. "Think of your daughter."

 

"We haven't got time, Angela. But, look." Meeting Bel's eyes briefly in the mirror, not long enough to see her distress, he smiled, "Almost there, sweetheart. I promise."

 

Against the dawn, Anne could finally see the outline of Dover Castle and, beyond it, the harbour. "Dover? Father, what on earth is going on?"

 

"We're going back to Paris, Annie."

 

"But..."

 

"I'll explain everything later."

 

Bel shuddered again, splaying her fingers across her belly. "Annie, I think I'm going to be sick."

 

"Just a little while longer, Isabel. I'm very sorry for this, dearest. If there'd been any way to avoid..." Mother trailed off as she caught sight of Bel's face. "Oh, Lord, Annie. Open the window!"

 

Despite the threat of her stomach, Isabel seemed to calm down as the breeze wafted into the car. "Thank you, Mummy. I think I'm better now."

 

The worry lines did not fade from Mother's face, even as they spilled out of the car; rather, they deepened when she caught sight of the small fishing boat awaiting them at the pier. "Richard, you cannot _possibly_ be serious!"

 

"We can't call attention to ourselves, least of all on a ferry and least of all today." Already the cherry-red car had been taken away by a man Anne vaguely recognised as having worked for her father for some time. "Look at the sky, Angela. We'll be fine."

 

"Your daughter is due in six weeks. She can't travel like this--"

 

"I'll be fine, Mummy," Bel whispered. "George..."

 

"Atta girl, Bel," her husband said with a faint smile. "We've got rooms at the Hôtel Meurice again. You did tell me you loved it the last time."

 

Bel returned the smile and slipped her arm through George's as they crossed the gangplank. Anne lingered on the pier, gazing back at the castle though she could not quite think why.

 

"Annie!" Her father's voice called her out of her reverie and she made her way slowly on board. She watched until the white cliffs had receded into the horizon.

 

They were within sight of Calais when the squall hit, buffeting the tiny boat like a toy in a whirlwind. In the cabin, Bel was huddled in a corner, supported on either side by Anne and their mother, her skin waxen beneath the single lamp.

 

The boat hit a sharp wave, pitching Anne across the room. It was only then that she noticed the dark stains on her stockings, red streaks beneath the light. As she looked back at Bel, her throat seemed to constrict.

 

"Annie?" Mother's voice had risen, grown slightly shrill. "Annie, what's the matter?"

"Blood..." Anne whispered, certain she could barely be heard over the wind. "There's blood!"

 

Bel, who had been silent all this while, suddenly let out a piercing scream. Mother jumped to her feet, keeping her balance by kicking off her shoes. "Annie, you need to help me. It's the baby."

 

"The baby? But you said--"

 

"It's coming, whether we're ready or not," snapped Mother. "Now, bring all the clothing you can find. We need to keep her warm. And fetch your father's flask. Quickly, Annie!"

 

Anne stumbled onto the deck and immediately stumbled, catching hold of the ship's rail to keep herself steady. "Father! Father, where are you?"

 

She could see vague shapes in the grey haze as the small crew darted back and forth, trying to keep the tiny vessel upright. Among them, she soon found her father, crouched beside one of the engines, intent on something she could not see.

 

"Father! Father, please, I need you!"

 

"Not now, Annie! Can't you see I'm busy?"

 

"Damn it all, Father, Bel's having the baby!" At the words, he turned sharply, eyes wide. "She's bleeding everywhere, Father. Mother sent me to fetch your flask."

 

Wordlessly, he handed it to her. "I'll come as soon as I can."

 

"Where's George?"

 

He shook his head. Anne turned and ran back to the cabin as quickly as she could, the slippery metal flask clutched in one hand.

 

"I found it, Mother. Father says he's on his way."

 

Bel was lying on a makeshift cot composed of ropes and nets, the priceless ermine draped over her like a blanket and liberally spattered with blood. "Much good may he do now," snapped Mother, the fury in her voice catching Anne off-guard. "The bloody fool. The damned, accursed, idiotic--"

 

Snatching the flask from Anne, she held it to Bel's lips. "Drink, sweetheart. It'll dull the pain."

 

Bel took a few sips before turning her head aside with a groan. "Mummy?"

 

"I'm here, dearest. I won't leave you. Annie's here too. Now, we need you to push. Scream as loudly as you need."

 

Anne had no idea how long she had been kneeling there, her fingers crushed beneath Bel's, listening to her sister howl in agony when the cabin door swung open to reveal her father standing there, his face a mask of horror.

 

Mother noticed first, her eyes narrowed like a cat's as she hissed, "Get out! Haven't you done bloody well enough?"

 

For the first time, Anne saw her father flinch, one hand rising to cover his mouth. "I didn't know..."

 

"We should never have left London! Do you honestly believe Ned York would have harmed a hair on Bel's head? That his mother would have stood by and let anything happen to her grandson?" Her voice rose to a harsh cry as she threw the empty flask at him. "This is all your fault, you and your _ambition_ , your fucking _plans_. Well? What have they come to now? Your daughter-- _our daughter_ , Richard--is dying in this godforsaken cabin, and for what?"

 

"Angela, don't." His voice was shaking, like bits of glass rubbing against one another. "This wasn't meant to happen--"

 

"I told you to get out, Richard." Mother swept one hand across her brow, leaving a streak of red across her face. "It's over."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"The baby's dead." Her voice was raw and Anne could see tears tumbling out of her eyes. "Our grandson, Richard."

 

"Isabel?" he whispered, stumbling forward to kneel beside her. "What of Isabel?"

 

Mother shook her head and thrust a bundle wrapped in one of Bel's dresses into Father's arms. "I don't know. But I don't want her to see him. Get out, Richard."

 

"I'll do it, Mother," Anne said suddenly, and they both looked up, as if only now remembering she was still here. "You both stay here, in case Bel wakes up."

 

Cradling what ought to have been her nephew, Anne slowly emerged from the cabin to find the rain had stopped. That was when she saw George huddled near the prow of the ship, his face tinged with green.

 

The entire world seemed to stop as she stared at him, unwilling to open her mouth lest every curse she could possibly imagine emerge to swarm him. But it would be no less than he deserved. Slowly, she approached, holding out the tiny, broken shape wrapped in bloodstained green linen.

 

"Don't you want to see your son?" she asked, fury sharpening her words to icicles. "Don't you care that your wife nearly died? Doesn't anything but your own damned skin matter to you?"

 

"Bel?" he murmured. Even soaking wet, he reeked of gin, and his eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her. "What's happened?"

 

Anne ignored the question. After picking up several stray bits of metal tackle that had come loose, she tucked them into the folds of the ruined dress to weigh it down. As it disappeared below the surface of the water, she began to speak, her voice low and hoarse.

 

"That was your son, George York. Your _son_. And you're too drunk to care."

 

"I was _scared_!" He buried his face in his hands. "God help me, I was fucking scared."

 

"And you think Bel wasn't?" Anne held out her hands to him, still smeared with blood. "Get in there, you bloody coward."

 

"But it wasn't my fault!" George protested as he groped his way to his feet. "It was your father--"

 

"You could have said no," Anne said quietly. "She's your wife; you could have found some other way, even if you had to leave her in London. You let this happen, George. I will never, ever forgive you, so long as I breathe."

 

She turned and staggered away before he could see her cry.

 

***

 

They stayed in Calais for a fortnight and in a small cottage near Boulogne a week after that before finally taking the train to Paris. Father had been travelling back and forth, readying the house in the Marais for their stay--a stay that Anne now realised was permanent.

 

More times than she could count, she sat down to write to her friends in Cambridge, to Cecily York, to _someone_ , only to set down her pen without a single stroke. What was there to say, really? That her father had thrown the full weight of his fortune and influence behind Adolf Hitler? That Bel still cried out in her sleep for a baby boy she'd already named Ned? That George returned every night stumbling and smelling of pastis? No, these things were better kept to herself.

 

Bel nestled into the seat, drawing her sable-trimmed collar closer to her face. The dark circles beneath her eyes were finally fading, and her penchant for spending hours on the beach had given her some colour. "Stop worrying about me, Annie," she said, smiling. "I'm feeling better, I promise."

 

"I'm not going to stop," Anne retorted. "But I'm glad to hear that, Bel." After a few moments staring blankly at her book, she looked once more at her sister. "Do you want to stay in Paris, Bel?"

 

"You mean live there?" Bel frowned. "I do like Paris, Annie. I don't suppose it would be terribly different from London."

 

"But...wouldn't you miss England? Even a little?"

 

"Of course I'd miss England, Annie, but you know we're not going to be here forever. Daddy says once this silly war blows over we'll go back to London."

 

Anne didn't have the heart to argue with her.

 

Rather to her surprise, it was well into November before Margaret Lancaster appeared to cement the alliance Anne's father had clearly made. Before that, however, she had sent an emissary.

 

But for the swastikas on his uniform, he would have been very fetching. As it was, Édouard Lancaster revealed a shyness quite at odds with Anne's impression of the Hitler Youth, though she suspected that had more to do with the awkwardness of the situation. Her father didn't help, having drawn Anne aside while Mother and Isabel greeted Édouard.

 

"I hope I shan't need to explain this to you, Annie." He had been quieter of late, more thoughtful ever since the awfulness of the Channel crossing; indeed, he'd been treating Isabel like a porcelain figurine, much to her annoyance. "He's a bit...committed to his superiors, perhaps, but I'm certain you'll get on."

 

"I'm certain he'll get on very well indeed with my inheritance," Anne said. "That's all this is about, at any rate. I can't imagine he cares one bit for my opinion."

 

"Annie, really." Her father sighed. "Must you be so difficult? Édouard Lancaster is a perfectly suitable young man--"

 

"He's a _Nazi_ ," she hissed. "Aren't we at war with them?"

 

"He is what circumstance made of him. Had we--and I include myself in this, Annie--had we not forced his parents to leave England, he'd have been no different from any of the boys you met in Cambridge."

 

Anne did not dignify this speculation with a response, only watched the chestnut-haired young man warily as he laughed with her mother. "His mother...you _know_ what she did, Father. To Ne--- _Edward_ 's father, to his _brother_..."

 

"That's in the past, Annie. We can't afford to dwell on it now; our circumstances are precarious as it is."

 

"That isn't my fault."

 

"Annie, I'm asking you to give him a chance. Don't judge him by that uniform." And with that, he left her side, shook hands with Édouard Lancaster, and chivvied Mother and Bel away, leaving Anne alone by the window.

 

On reflex, she sat down on the window-seat and turned to watch the lady from three doors down who always walked her poodle at three in the afternoon.

 

"Do you like dogs?" His French was perfect, with only the smallest hint of a German accent. She could only imagine it was his mother's influence.

 

Anne shrugged. "When I was small, we had a dog but he died before I went to Cambridge. He was named Jasper and he was the laziest dog in all the world." Unexpectedly, she laughed. "Father told me he was a hunter, but I didn't believe him."

 

"Your father...he wishes us to..."

 

Smile fading, Anne held up her hand. "I understand. But you must understand too that it's rather awkward for me. It must surely be for you."

 

"It is, yes," he confessed, sinking onto the seat beside her. "They do not teach us about girls at the _Ordensburgen_. It is all Germany and war." With a laugh, he added, "A bit boring, I think."

 

"Do you remember England?" The question popped out before Anne could stop herself.

 

Édouard thought for a moment. "Not very well. But I will be returning there soon."

 

"Truly?" Anne had to suppress a shudder. "Are you so certain?"

 

"Mademoiselle Anne--"

 

"Just Anne, please," she sighed. "Might as well get used to it," she added in English.

 

"We can speak English if you prefer," he replied in that language. The accent was more pronounced but she could understand him perfectly.

 

Oddly moved, Anne nodded. "You're very kind."

 

"I want things to be..." Édouard searched for the word, "easy. For us."

 

"I know you do," she said, looking at the ground. "And perhaps they will be, in time."

 

He folded her hand in his. Anne did not pull away and it seemed as though the distance between her and England had grown even greater.

 

They announced--or, more accurately, Father and Margaret Lancaster announced--their engagement on Christmas Eve. As a passing waiter refilled Anne's empty champagne glass, she could not help but think that it did not seem as though France was at war at all, at least not amongst the glittering crowd her parents had invited.

 

"Drink while you can. There will be no champagne when the Germans turn our way." She found herself looking into the dark, snapping eyes of Margaret Lancaster, both like and unlike those of her son. The older woman studied her coldly. "You disapprove."

 

"I don't know what you mean, _belle-mère_ ," Anne said, rather relishing the grimace that prompted. "Surely no girl would disapprove of anything at her engagement party."

 

"You have your father's tongue, _fillette_ , and would do well to learn to muzzle it." Pulling a Gauloise out of a mother-of-pearl case, she lit it and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. "I did not ask for this, but beggars cannot be choosers and Édouard seems to find you tolerable enough. _Ça suffit_."

 

"I did not ask for this either, Madame."

 

"No, indeed. I know more of you than you think, Mademoiselle Warwick. Perhaps even more than you, yourself, know." One corner of her red-painted mouth twitched upward in a half-smile. "You should thank God, mademoiselle. Your father would have married you to a murderer, but instead, you shall marry my son."

 

"A murderer?" echoed Anne, frowning. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"I have spies of my own. And you may tell him this. I know he angled for Richard York--a man after his own heart, no doubt--but the cripple turned him down. If you want to know why your sister went through such agonies on the sea," she lowered her voice to an intimate murmur, "it was Richard who gave your father's name to the authorities."

 

Anne had to laugh, bitter as the sound was. "Of course he did. My father was a traitor and they both knew that. One must, according to Father, always look out for oneself." She had briefly considered revealing all she knew, but it hadn't been nearly enough to be useful. _This is larger than my father and Ned_. What surprised her was that Richard had listened.

 

Margaret made a sharp noise of disapproval. "I warned you to guard your tongue. _Der Führer_ has ears in many places."

 

"I'm sure Mr Hitler has better things to think about than me." With her sweetest smile, Anne inclined her head to her prospective mother-in-law and turned away to look for Bel. Instead, she found her fiancé, cheeks flushed from champagne.

 

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

 

Anne shrugged, raising her glass. "Why shouldn't I be?"

 

"Maman can be a little..." There was something oddly endearing in his smile. "I do want you to like one another."

 

"Of course," was all she could say in response. "Time will tell, I daresay. What was my father saying?" A glance over his shoulder revealed Anne's father, apparently deep in conversation with a clutch of guests, at least three of whom were wearing strategically placed swastikas. "You all seemed quite amused."

 

"Oh, nothing of consequence." He could not hide the snicker. "Just a story about Edward York."

 

"Oh?"

 

He muffled his laughter in another sip of champagne before responding. "It would appear that, when your father found him before he left London, it was in quite the compromising position." After a dramatic pause, he added, "Tied to a bed with a pair of ladies' stockings."

 

Anne couldn't hide the smile that prompted. "Can't say as I'm surprised. It being Ned."

 

Édouard's smile visibly faltered. "You knew him well, then."

 

Anne wanted to retort that Ned York was hardly dead and to be spoken of in the past tense, but she bit her tongue. "Bel and I have known them all our lives. Much as you and Father may wish it, we can't simply forget that."

 

Draining the rest of her champagne, she set the glass on a passing footman's tray and made her way across the room, conscious of his disapproving eyes on her until she'd closed the door behind her.

 

***

 

Anne wondered what it meant that the first letter to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage came from Cecily York. It was more a note than a letter, its sparse, unadorned phrases glinting like ice shards amidst the bouquets and incomprehensible cards from Father's friends.

 

_I had hoped for better things for you, but I wish you nothing more than the strength to endure whatever is to come. You will always be welcome here. Do not forget that_.

 

Anne tucked the note into her jewellery box and stared at her new engagement ring until Isabel appeared at the door to call her to supper.

 

"Bel?" Anne met her sister's eyes in the mirror. "You can't possibly approve of what Father's doing. _George_ can't possibly approve."

 

Bel pretended great interest in her ring--a ridiculous thing purchased from Cartier for a small fortune. "Would it matter if I didn't, Annie?"

 

"That's not the point, Bel--"

 

"I asked you if it would matter." Bel finally looked at her, thinned lips making her look years older. "We both know the answer to that. Might as well make the best of it."

 

Anne, catching both herself and Bel completely by surprise, threw herself into her sister's arms.

 

As the Reich's forces advanced inexorably across Belgium, Anne began to notice more and more eyes on her whenever she accompanied Édouard anywhere, as if the uniform were a beacon--or, perhaps, more appropriately, some sort of scarlet letter. She learnt to keep her eyes ahead and pretend she did not see the stares. She even began to understand what drove George when he drank so much that he needed to be carried home from parties, much to Father's embarrassment. Bel just withdrew further and further into herself, except for the nights when she crept into Anne's room just as Anne had when they were young girls.

 

She knew that, if she truly wanted, she could leave. Though Father had taken to making certain she never left the house unaccompanied, servants and guards were easily bribed and Bel had a small fortune in jewellery. Of course, once she did leave, she had nowhere to go. The railways and roads out of Paris were clogged with people trying to outrun the SS, and not even all of her jewels and Bel's combined would buy passage across the Channel now.

 

Bel, when she admitted to having considered this, just gave a brittle bark of laughter. "Has it never occurred to you, Annie, that the Germans might win? And that, if they do, Father is like to make his fortune twice over?"

 

"It never occurred to me to care."

 

The Germans entered Paris three weeks before Anne and Édouard were to be married. In fact, Édouard had left her in the Lancaster _appartement_ at the Ritz before dashing off at his superiors' request. Even from this distance, they could hear the announcements from the Champs-Elysées, barked through megaphones perched upon tanks.

 

They had won. Father had won. And yet it felt as though everything inside her had been hollowed out. As she watched Margaret Lancaster standing by the window, the ubiquitous cigarette in its ivory holder, she heard herself say out loud, "You must be satisfied with how it's all turned out."

 

Margaret turned from the window. Without seeming to see Anne at first, she said aloud in her own softly accented German, "Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein."

 

Anne shivered as the older woman's face came into view. Margaret's cigarette had long since burnt out and her cheeks was streaked with kohl-black tears. "He who battles monsters should beware, lest he himself become a monster. And when you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." The smile that followed was ghastly. "Look with me, Anne Warwick. The abyss is just outside this window."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaret quotes Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_.


End file.
